


and i will run back to you

by WinterXAssassin



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Crossover, Fuck Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Memory Loss, Military, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Science Fiction, Tags Are Hard, Tension, and yes commander thorn is very UNdead in this fic because i love him, at least it's momentary memory loss, due to a concussion lmao, i do what i want and that includes eat canon for breakfast
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25783393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterXAssassin/pseuds/WinterXAssassin
Summary: She doesn’t remember the crash.She can scarcely remember anything from before it, either, and she realizes belatedly that she must have hit her head — especially when she finds that her helmet has been jarred loose from her head. It’s probably buried somewhere in the twisted hulk that was once a D81-LRT Condor dropship.The last thing she can recall is—the Condor’s frame shuddering around her, metal groaning and creaking with stress, the cerulean gaping maw of an open Slipspace portal, the crackle of an open commlink — “I’m going in, whether I want to or not!” — the screaming of her bird’s engines as they died out...—nothing.Or: wibbly wobbly Slipspacey timey wimey stuff happens, and Artemis falls from the universe ofHalo, after the Covenant War's end, to the universe ofStar Wars, set during the Clone Wars.Navigating her way through her new world is going to take some time, and some getting used to. But she's a Spartan; it's nothing she can't handle.Right?
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	1. crash hot

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hey hi hello I have no shame  
> I haven't written in so long because I haven't had the muse or motivation or drive or inspiration for it.... and then out of the blue, WHAM, crossover fic!
> 
> .....Enjoy? :3

She doesn’t remember the crash.

She can scarcely remember anything from _before_ it, either, and she realizes belatedly that she must have hit her head — especially when she finds that her helmet has been jarred loose from her head. It’s probably buried somewhere in the twisted hulk that was once a D81-LRT Condor dropship.

The last thing she can recall is—

_the Condor’s frame shuddering around her, metal groaning and creaking with stress, the cerulean gaping maw of an open Slipspace portal, the crackle of an open commlink — “I’m going in, whether I want to or not!” — the screaming of her bird’s engines as they died out..._

—nothing.

“Probably a concussion,” she means to say, but given the way concussion slurs on her tongue as _conk-uhhh-sh-shun_ proves her theory to be correct. She’s barely cognizant, that much she can tell. The next thing to come to her attention is the fact that her legs are trapped beneath a support strut, her armour the only thing protecting her calves from being crushed, and that there’s—

—there’s a shard of metal, jagged and twisted, sticking out of her flank. And it’s gleaming with blood. _Her_ blood.

As the awareness sinks in, and the muzziness of loss of consciousness fades, a ragged cry of pain escapes her. _Shit_ , but it hurts; she can feel a throbbing in her flank, and it pulls every time she inhales or exhales too deeply. She has to keep her breathing shallow to ease the ache. She has to steady herself, lest she panic and lose her head. She might be a Spartan, trained to take much worse, but the situation isn’t an ideal one, and it sets her teeth on edge.

That’s not the only thing setting her teeth on edge, either.

As her senses finish kicking back up to operational status, she’s aware of a buzzing sound, coming from somewhere close. And it sounds like.... it sounds like someone’s trying to cut through the hull of the trashed Condor. The hair at the back of her neck prickles, and she wishes she could find her helmet. It would tell her so much about the people — or even non-humans — outside.

Instead, all she can do is sit back and wait... and hope against all hope that either the UNSC, or someone equally hospitable, has found her.

* * *

It’s nearly an hour later — by her best guess, thanks to her internal clock, and who is she to know what the solar and lunar cycles of wherever the hell she’s ended up are like — when there’s a shaft of light dazzling her vision. She squints against it, and as her eyes adjust, she catches sight of a rope, and of three armour-clad soldiers dropping down to the floor below.

The plating is of an unfamiliar design, sporting smooth-yet-blocky lines, and hard angles that seem to flow from one plate to the next. The helmets, too, are unrecognizable; oddly-shaped things with T-visors that seem to frown at her as they approach. The one in the lead is adorned with a grey bonnet of sorts framing the T-visor, an antenna that sticks high into the air behind the bonnet, and red wings displayed upon the round, white helmet top.

She can’t say she’s ever seen armour kits designed in such a manner — they don’t look remotely familiar to her, and that’s unsettling. They seem too organized, too militaristic, to be some kind of planetary militia. She doesn’t have to know who they are to be able to tell — she can recognize career soldiers from a mile away. Their equipment is scuffed, worn, but they carry it with pride; the marks their armour plates bare shows that they’ve fought through many hard-won battles. Which then begs the next question...

Who were they, and where was she?

The lead soldier, a strange, black sort of skirt fluttering about their legs from his waist, halts before her, and crouches so that their T-visor is level with her eyes. The helmet cants sideways, as they tilts his head, before they nod once in satisfaction, and whips around to address the soldiers behind them.

“Losian, Brol, get the men organized; tell ‘em we’re crackin’ this tin can wide open. We’re gonna need some heavy lifting to get her outta here.” The voice is male, rough and warm and brooking no arguments. He’s evidently a commanding officer of some kind; there’s no hesitation from his subordinates as they snap off salutes, and take the rope back up through the hole in the Condor’s roof... or perhaps it’s the flank; she can’t tell what’s up and what’s down, at this point.

Her wandering attention is brought back to the present, as the soldier before her shifts his weight closer, angling for a better look at his face.

“You’re in pretty good shape, all things considered, ma’am,” he tells her gently, and she’s sure she can hear a faint smile in his voice, even if she can’t see his face. “But uh, that piece of wreckage that’s stickin’ outta your side there looks pretty nasty, and there’s no tellin’ what’s happened to your legs. I’m no medic, but I’d say you could do with some urgent medical attention.”

“That’s...” She blinks slowly, processing the news. “Well, I’ve had worse.” It’s a weak joke, but it earns her a huff of laughter, all the same. “Who... Who are you?”

“Commander Thorn of the Coruscant Guard, ma’am.” And yes, this time she can hear the smile in his voice, as he adds a joke of his own, “The cavalry has arrived.”


	2. found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, at long last, I've found a good stopping point for this chapter!! It took me a long, _long_ time to do, and I apologize for that. Aside from working on _anno seorsum_ , which was a long enough project on its own, I was also attempting to work on another WIP chapter for _Canis Lupus_... yeah, you get the picture! XD
> 
> But here we go; we're getting somewhere, now!
> 
> Also, big shoutout to [my pal alex, for beta'ing this chapter; keep on rockin', dude!](https://infinityactual.tumblr.com)  
>   
> And, as a sidenote, the "mysterious woman" appearing in this chapter, is a lovely Jedi OC, who belongs to [the wonderful nou; I'm simply borrowing her for the story!](https://twitter.com/hoeforplosbros)  
> 

“By the rings...” Levu ’Voram’s four hinged jaws fall slack, as he gazes through the Phantom’s viewport over Xovu ’Zaramai’s shoulder. “Where _are_ we?”

Xovu snorts softly, shaking his head and tapping a claw against one of the cockpit readouts. “According to our navigations... Nowhere in charted space. Wherever that portal lead us, it is nowhere familiar. And we have lost communications. We are on our own, out here.”

“Any sign of the Spartan’s ship, Blademaster?” A voice carries out from the hold of the dropship, belonging to the leader of their little party, Tysze ’Relkam. Once an Executioner during the glory days of the Covenant Empire. Since its collapse, however, his rank has been reduced to nothing more than a title, albeit one that still holds weight. Each and every member of the Champions of Qikost look to him for guidance... and they do so out of fear as much as respect.

Everyone knows it is unwise to cross an Executioner, or to raise his ire.

Which is why the Champions all make sure to choose their words carefully. None of them want to end up on Tysze’s bad side. Their Executioner will never let them forget it.

“Esteemed one, it appears that the vessel dropped from Slipspace ahead of ours, and simply... vanished. I am keeping an eye on the scanners, lest we find it again, or whatever remains of it, should it have crashed.” Xovu answers, a deferential note in his voice.

“Good.” Tysze gives an appreciative rattle of his mandibles. “I trust you to do a fine job of it. Quick thinking, Blademaster.” It’s as close to a compliment as the Executioner is ever willing to give out. And thus, what little tension that had remained in the hold of the Phantom, dissipates with those words. They _will_ find this Spartan, and they _will_ bring honour to Tysze and the rest of the Champions along the way.

Their Executioner is counting on them.

* * *

Commander CC-1010 of the Coruscant Guard, ever weary and never resting, pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, blowing an explosive sigh from between his lips. Too much flimsiwork, and so little time to do it in, consisting of three arrest reports to be signed, various Senatorial forms — including some from the Chancellor himself — and five requisitions forms.

And that’s on the desk in his office alone.

Picking up his coffee mug, he sighs again when he realizes that it’s empty, and he drained it fifteen minutes ago. He’s been at this for too long, and for once, he’s willing to admit to himself that he needs a break.

But he has to do it. Because if he doesn’t, who else will? The other Guard Commanders have enough on their plates as it is.

And he’s _the_ Commander. He’s their superior officer. Why should he dump all of his work on them? That’s not fair at all. That’s not an example of a good leader. No; he has to shoulder these burdens alone.

It’s what he was built for.

Drumming his fingers upon the desk’s oak top, he glowers balefully at the paperwork, and pulls another requisition sheet off the pile instead. These are what’s important right now. The senators can wait. It’s not as if the Senate doesn’t take ten years to decide on things, anyway. 

He’s just begun to skim over a supply request for this division of the Guard, when his commlink chirps. Fox groans, runs a palm over his face, feeling the stubble along his mouth and jawline. He should shave, maybe shower while he’s at it... Grab a bite to eat, and then get back into the draining flimsiwork that awaits.

But that commlink is awfully insistent. Whatever it is, it must be an important affair. He’d better answer.

“CC-1010 of the Coruscant Guard speaking.”

“ _Fox, thank the stars you actually picked up. You in the middle of a workout or somethin’,_ ori’vod? _Coulda sworn you were more punctual when it came to answering your comm._ ” From the teasing tone and gentle, yet unidentifiable, lilt to the voice, Fox pegs the speaker as being Captain Rex, of the 501st Battalion.

Skywalker’s boys. Tales have their names etched as legends, even among the vode. Chaos runs through their veins. But at least it’s a brother calling. Dealing with their Captain will be like a breath of fresh air for the world-weary Commander.

“Nah, mountain of paperwork.” he grunts, and thank the Force that he doesn’t need to speak formally with a brother. It’s tiring, to try and act the model soldier all the time. Just for once, he wants to be allowed to feel... _human_. Not that the Clones have any rights as sentient beings. “Loads of it, too. But I can spare... five minutes, for a _vod’ika_.” 

“ _Oh, paperwork; of course. That would’ve been my second guess, knowin’ you._ ” There’s a creak from Rex’s end, as though he were sitting or lying down, and he’s gotten to his feet to pace the room as he talks. Always full of energy, always raring to go. Somehow, that’s perhaps the one thing that’s unchanging about Captain Rex. No matter what this war throws at them, he’s always ready to jump back into the fray, the second he gets his chance.

Fox rolls his eyes, despite Rex not being there to see, and huffs a noise that might be laughter. “Yeah yeah yeah. This better be important, _vod’ika_. I’ve got duties to get back to, and I’ve no doubt that you do, as well.”

At first, all he can hear is a woman’s voice, but sounding further away, as though she’s only in the same room as the Captain, and not standing beside him. “ _Rexie, come back to bed. I’m cold._ ”

_Since when is Rex seeing someone...? Didn’t think he had it in him. Always thought he was too focused on the war; didn’t have time for a relationship._

_Guess he had us all fooled._

“ _In a minute,_ cyar’ika, _I promise. I just need to get this sorted out._ ” Rex’s voice is clearer, suddenly, as though he’s turned his attention back to the commlink upon his wrist, rather than the woman in his room — and probably in his bed. “ _About that request, Fox; did you get it?”_

Fox can’t help but let his curiosity get the better of him. He wants to know what Rex is keeping so close to his chest. They’re brothers, after all. And even if they’re not in the same battalion, even if they’ve never been particularly close, brothers still share things. “Get what? And who was that, anyway?”

Rex growls over the commlink, the guttural sound reminding Fox of the very first time he’d heard it, way back when the Captain was a scrappy, feral little cadet, launching himself at Wolffe to bite him. Fox tries not to laugh; focuses on the reply, instead. “ _None of your damn business. Now, that request. Did you get it, or not? You said you’d have someone look into it..._ ”

The Commander takes a moment to wrack his brain for what it is his younger brother is talking about. And of course, the answer’s right there in front of him, half buried beneath the pile of datapads that’s cluttering one side of his desk. “Yeah, ’course I did. I’ll send it through to you once I’ve finished all this _osik_ that’s currently plaguin’ my workspace.” 

He can hear a heaving sigh of relief, and it’s just as Rex is drawing breath to reply, that a knock sounds on the door to Fox’s office. 

“ _Sounds like you’d better get that_.”

“Gee, thanks, _vod’ika_ ; as if that wasn’t obvious already.” Fox snarls sarcastically, and he huffs indignantly at Rex’s chuffing laughter. The last thing he hears is the mysterious woman gently berating the Captain for _tormenting his brothers_ , and Rex wheezing amusedly in response, before he snaps his commlink off.

 _Pain in the shebs, you are,_ Rex’ika _..._

He stares despondently for another moment at his empty coffee mug, before rising to his feet, only to get swept back into his chair as Commander Thorn bursts into the room. Sith. Karking. Hells. Can’t he catch even _five minutes_ of peace?

_Apparently not. Such is a day in the life of Commander of the Corrie Guard._

“Fox, you wouldn’t _believe_ what kind of person we just brought in. Well. I mean, I think they’re a person? They look pretty human, after they took their bucket off. They’re in this... this really cool suit of armour, y’know? Head to toe, like us, but it’s so _different_. It seems so _thick_ , and so _heavy_. We had a real hard time of moving it, and I have to wonder if—”

Fox holds up a hand. “Thorn, _vod’ika_. Brakes, please.” He loves his fellow Commander, he really does. But not when Thorn talks at a million klicks a minute— Force forbid his little brother is anything _but_ excitable, the second something even _slightly_ out of the norm occurs for the Guard. Thumb and forefinger pinch the bridge of his nose, again, and he sighs deeply... again.

This is going to be another one of Those days.

“I am going to need another cup of caf.” he bemoans, and glances mournfully up at Thorn. “Don’t suppose you’d mind fixing me a cup, in return for whatever story you’re _dying_ to tell?” 

Thorn’s expression brightens. “I can manage that!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for Mando'a—
> 
> ori'vod: big brother / big sister  
> vod'ika: little brother / little sister  
> cyar'ika: darling / sweetheart  
> osik: dung... or, well, _shit_  
>  rex'ika: affectionate nickname for "rex"; "little rex"


End file.
